Notes from Dr Pennyworth
by mahlia
Summary: Before Alfred goes on an extended holiday he sends his own personal medical files for the family to Bruce in case something happens. Reading through them, Bruce learns a lot about his children and the kind of example he sets as Batman. He also wants to show how his children how much they mean to him in his own way. And as we all know with Bruce, actions speak louder than words.
1. Prologue

This was inspired by a headcanon post from oh-mother-of-darkness over on Tumblr about permanent injuries/conditions members of the Batfamily would have.

You can find the post here, just remove the spaces: bit. ly/ 2TVzQ5A

* * *

Mid-July sunshine flooded Alfred's study with warmth and light as he sat at his desk. Two slices of whole-wheat toast with butter and black current jam sat next to a perfectly-brewed cup of steaming English breakfast tea. The scent of freshly-mowed grass wafted in through the open window, in addition to the soothing coo of a pair of mourning doves that perched themselves beneath that same window.

Alfred paid none of it any mind as he leaned back in his chair, re-reading the paragraph he'd just finished typing. He was working in Dick's medical file after receiving a note from Damian about Dick's recent knee injury, adding a few last-minute updates before he went on his annual three-week holiday. He kept extensive charts on everyone he cared for, from Bruce all the way down to the newest members, Duke and Harper. These were files which he shared with no one, apart from Doctor Thompkins, as no one in this family could be trusted not to remove pertinent information about themselves so they could continue to work when sick or injured.

However, after Tim was injured last year while he was away, Alfred realized he needed to grant someone access to this information, just in case. For a moment he considered sending it all to Tim, as he could be trusted not to alter the files at all, but he immediately decided against doing so, as it would bring down even more stress on the young man's shoulders. Therefore, the responsibility would fall on Bruce, as it rightly should.

With a wry smile, he took a bite of his toast, then a sip of his tea as he switched to finish reading Damian's note. The remainder of it wasn't actually about Dick; it was a note written to him wishing him well on his holiday and politely requesting a photograph or two from any of the countries he may visit. He carefully folded the note, slid it back into its envelope and tucked it into a desk drawer reserved for things like Damian's note. Alfred kept every sketch he'd been given, along with holiday and birthday cards.

The family portrait hanging above the fireplace caught his attention, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk while he finished his tea. Damian struggled quite a bit when they thought Bruce passed away, and he was utterly petrified that Dick might be next. In an effort to cope with that fear, Damian began keeping notes about Dick's health: what he ate for meals, any injuries he sustained, how much he slept, and so on. The notes or phone calls came almost daily at first, to the point he nearly had to ask Damian to stop.

But he knew it was a way for Damian to process what he was feeling. He never said anything, and eventually the calls and notes dwindled to every two or three days, to once a week, and then to monthly summaries. About a month and a half after Bruce came back, the updates ceased completely. And that was why Damian's latest note was so curious. Dick was back to taping his shoulder before patrol again, which either meant he was simply trying to prevent further injury, or he was already injured and was trying to prevent it from getting worse. Considering he hadn't received any kind of note from Damian in nearly eight months, he decided to err on the side of caution and flag this most recent entry for Bruce to follow up on in his absence.

With a smile, he finished his tea, copied each of the files and moved them off his private directory and into the medical directory on the cave's computer network. The only thing left to do was to change his clothes and he would officially be in holiday mode. He shut down his computer and glanced up at the grandfather clock across the room. It was only just after eight-thirty and Jason wouldn't arrive to take him to the airport until ten-thirty.

Two hours was a long time to wait.

Perhaps he still had time to pull some weeds from the bed of flowers beneath his window.

* * *

Bruce sat down in front of the computer in the cave, sipping on a cup of black coffee. Damian was playing with Titus somewhere behind him, his deep, excited bark echoing through the cave.

He was scrolling through several folders of intel Dick had flagged from last week when he noticed the blinking green icon in the lower right hand corner. It was a notification about a new file directory from Alfred's private server. That was odd; he didn't know Alfred kept files that large anywhere other than the server down there.

Damian's hand on his shoulder startled him and he nearly sloshed coffee onto the keyboard.

"Father, I'm taking Titus out for his walk before patrol. Is there anything you need me to do before we go?"

He tore his gaze from the screen long enough to smile at Damian and scratch Titus behind his ears.

"No, go ahead. Take your time- it's nice out this evening. Be back for dinner by seven; Tim's bringing takeout from that Italian place by his apartment."

"Come on, Titus. You ready for your walk?"

Titus barked again and bounded up the stairs, Damian sprinting behind him.

Bruce turned his attention back to the computer and opened the directory, reading over the list of files. Everyone had a folder, and based on the size of each folder, there was an enormous amount of data in them. He opened his own and saw more folders with labels like 'Imaging' and 'Bloodwork'. The largest file was labeled 'Medical History'.

He shook his head in amusement as he opened the file, having to wait several seconds until it displayed on the screen, it was so large. Leave it to Alfred to have his own private medical record system, and he had a feeling this was much more extensive than the files he kept himself.

He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips as he read through it. It was well-documented that Alfred had a steel trap for a memory, and it showed in the detail in how he summarized the injuries and illness Bruce had as a child. The bout of pneumonia he contracted when he was seven. The broken finger after he accidentally closed the lid of the piano on his hand. A tonsillectomy when he was six. It was all there, as was Alfred's treatment regimen. Hot showers for the pneumonia. Chocolate chip cookies for the broken finger. Ice cream after the tonsillectomy.

As he finished reading the section from before he left Gotham, a sense of nostalgia swelled in his chest and he began to laugh.

If Alfred was this kind about the injuries and illnesses of Bruce's childhood, he couldn't _wait_ to see how the tone changed when he started looking after Bruce as Batman.


	2. Chapter 1 - Bruce

Parts of Bruce are practically bionic, with all the metal bits he's got inside him, which would make metal detectors _really_ fun for him.

Also, I'm ignoring the events of the Endgame arc where Bruce was healed/resurrected with dionesium because otherwise, he would have been healed and I wouldn't have had nearly as much fun writing this chapter because there would have been no injuries for his sons to make fun of him for.

**A/N:**The beginnings of each chapter are excerpts from each family member's medical records and will be the focus of that chapter.

* * *

_History of open olecranon and ulnar fracture, left arm. Surgically repaired by ORIF. One plate, eight screws. Hardware left in place. One screw protrudes slightly, though Bruce has stated repeatedly there is no pain or discomfort. No further information will be made available in his medical chart, per Bruce's request._

_Though it should be noted that it's been publicly attributed to a "skiing accident" in the Swiss Alps despite my insistence he clear up that ridiculous misunderstanding, as it makes him look like an incompetent fool. At the time of the injury, Bruce was training somewhere in the Far East, not on holiday with an Olympic athlete. Admittedly, it makes for a good cover story. _

_Regardless, the armor plate on the left arm of his suit was extended further up his arm to protect that side from impact._

* * *

_Bruce injured his back this evening after a robbery suspect struck him with an aluminum bat. Due to the numerous pieces of metal hardware Bruce has throughout his body, MRI's are permanently out of the question. (L3-L4 vertebrae fused, screws and bone graft cage still present. Stabilization rods removed eight weeks post-surgery.) Effects of injury tonight appear to be minimal with localized swelling, bruising and tenderness. X-rays don't show any damage to the existing hardware._

_**Note**__: There is evidence of arthritis and disc degeneration in both the thoracic and lumbar spine. His cervical spine also shows evidence of arthritis and one bulging disc. These symptoms have been present for quite some time, and despite my and Leslie's suggestions he give himself a break to slow the progression of the arthritis, he continues to push himself like he did when he was 23._

_At the time of this entry he is currently 34, but that doesn't appear to matter._

* * *

_Bruce suffered a fall from a third-floor window this evening, landing on his buttocks and right hip after the grapple line came loose. There was no further damage to any of the previously injured vertebrae, though I am concerned about possible compression fractures to S2-S4 vertebrae. X-rays were inconclusive. A second set of x-rays will be taken once inflammation has reduced._

* * *

Bruce felt like a horrible parent.

No, he didn't _feel_ like a horrible parent.

He _was_ a horrible parent.

Two days after he finished reading through Alfred's immaculately maintained records, his mind was still reeling from the sheer volume of information he needed to process. There were records for everyone from any time Alfred treated them, whether it was a course of antibiotics for strep throat, vaccines and antidotes for the myriad of things they were all exposed to, or major surgery after a fight gone wrong.

Bruce prided himself in how extensive and thorough his case notes were, and how well organized the entire casefile directories were. And up until Alfred left for vacation, he'd also been satisfied with the quality of his medical record documentation. But now he questioned everything about what he thought he knew. After the initial shock wore off over the sheer volume of information Alfred had, intense guilt took hold when he realized just how much of what he read was new information for him.

Important, life-saving information he hadn't been aware of.

Had he really become that careless? That stupid?

Or had he just come to rely too much on Alfred?

Either way, it was a problem he intended to rectify.

Over these last two days, he relived some of the worst nights of his life as he read through Dick and Jason's records. And going through Tim and Damian's, he'd had to take several breaks because he was overwhelmed with grief and shame at how much he _didn't _know about the two of them. Cassandra, Stephanie and Barbara's files were only slightly easier to read, though that was only because of the amount of information that was missing.

Cassandra had no medical history, as Shiva and Cain never bothered with it. The Lazarus Pit would heal whatever damage they did to her, so keeping a file of any kind was pointless to them. Stephanie's records with Bruce and Alfred only went back a few years and were the most 'normal' among them, save for the entries from Leslie after she helped treat Stephanie when Black Mask nearly killed her. He knew Barbara's records were incomplete, as everything that happened after she was shot was kept on her own private server, and Alfred's notes only filled in a few things she'd updated him on, such as allergies, current medications or wellness exams.

He couldn't help but wonder if this information had been intentionally kept from him, and Bruce felt the color drain from his face. Did they not want him to know about some of these things because they were scared of what he might think? Were they afraid of disappointing him? Or was he so wrapped up in himself they thought him too busy to care?

The nights spent keeping vigil next to an injured child's bed came to mind, and he forced himself to take a breath. No, they knew their safety meant more to him than anything else. He remembered all the discussions with everyone about reporting injuries and taking time off to recover, in addition to the most important goal of getting home safely after a night of patrol. Bruce had always used himself as an example of what _not_ to do, as a cautionary tale.

At least, he _thought_ he had. Maybe he'd failed in that regard, it was hard to tell after reading what he had.

He leaned back in his chair and stretched, wincing as things popped painfully along his spine. The doubt that crept into the darker recesses of his mind when he began reading was making its way into the light, forcing him to consider the possibility he may have royally screwed up when it came to raising his children, instead raising a small army of soldiers.

But what mattered at the moment, however, was making sure they all knew for certain their health and safety mattered to him. He wanted them to live long, healthy, happy lives, not lives spent in pain and misery, full of regret and contempt for their father.

Armed with Alfred's notes, he was ready to put his plan into motion to show them just how much he cared.

But first, it was time to check on dinner, the one he wasn't supposed to know about.

* * *

"Christ, Dick. Do you not know how to sauté vegetables?"

Dick sighed at Jason's sarcastic tone, turning around to glare at Tim when he laughed. Tim held his phone up, allowing Jason to peer over Dick's shoulder via FaceTime.

"I never had the pleasure of private cooking lessons with Alfred," he muttered. "Apparently you were the only one special enough for that."

"Add some more butter and olive oil before you burn everything again," Jason said. "And did you ever think Alfred may welcome company in the kitchen?"

Dick did as he was told and stirred the contents of the pan. Tim took a seat at the table and propped his phone against the empty Crock Pot on the table.

"Now what?" he asked. "The carrots, onion, and potatoes are sliced. And the herbs are all diced, or whatever."

Tim watched as Jason covered his face with a pillow from his couch before screaming into it.

"Did you sear the pot roast?" He sounded downright weary at that point.

"That was the first thing I did, Jay," Dick sighed. "Your memory can't be _that_ bad."

"No, but watching you cook is somewhat of a traumatic experience," Jason snarked. "I must have blocked it out."

"Guys, come on," Tim pleaded. "We wanted to have this ready before patrol to surprise Bruce, remember?"

"It smells good in here. What's cooking?" Bruce asked, clapping a large hand on Tim's shoulder.

Dick and Tim both jumped, and Jason's obnoxious cackle shook Tim's phone.

"Nice going, Dickhead. Had you not burned the garlic the first time, you would have been done by now."

Dick gave him a half-hearted glare, but he was struggling to hide a smile. He may or may not have burned the first batch on purpose just because it would piss Jason off, and he'd have to stay on the phone longer.

"You win some, you lose some," Dick said. "Now what do we do?"

"Dump the vegetables over the pot roast. Mix the garlic and onions into the beef broth, add the herbs Tim chopped, and then pour that on top of the pot roast." Jason was sitting upright on his couch, legs tucked under him, watching TV in the background.

Bruce leaned over Tim and peered into the Crock Pot.

"That looks amazing."

Without missing a beat or looking away from his TV, Jason grinned.

"Thanks!"

At the sink, Dick's shoulders slumped dramatically, and he sighed loudly enough to make Tim laugh.

"You weren't supposed to come upstairs yet, Bruce."

Bruce leaned around Tim to steal a chunk of carrot from the bowl in front of him. Before he brought his arm back, Tim caught him by the wrist.

"Wait. What's that?"

He pointed to a small protrusion along Bruce's left elbow.

Dick turned and leaned against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest. He was smiling widely now, blue eyes ablaze with mischief.

"You've never seen that?" Dick asked. "It's a screw sticking out of his arm- how do you not notice that, detective?"

"Seriously?" Tim looked up at Bruce before running a fingertip over it. He cringed and yanked his hand back. "Why hadn't I noticed that before?"

"I think the better question," Jason added, grinning just as devilishly as Dick was, "is how dear old dad got it in the first place. Right, Dickie?"

"You got it, Jaybird."

Dick pushed off the sink and sidled up to Bruce, who was still calmly eating his carrot.

"So, Bruce. Do tell. Was it _really_ a European vacation with an Olympic skier that went horribly wrong?"

Dick glanced at Jason, who took that as his cue to egg Bruce on even further.

"Or did the _Gotham Gazette_ have it right?" Jason teased. "Did Brucie fall off a balcony trying to woo some German supermodel?"

Tim looked between his brothers, then up at Bruce, waiting for an answer. Bruce simply took another carrot before looking down at the strange little bump on his elbow.

"Oh, I've had this much longer than that," he replied casually, snapping off a piece of carrot and popping it into his mouth. He took his time chewing, savoring how anxious Dick and Jason were becoming. "And it didn't happen on a trip to Europe. I was actually somewhere not even remotely close to Europe."

He turned and walked away, shoving his hands into his pockets nonchalantly.

"Wait- Bruce?"

He stopped and turned, smiling at Tim.

"Yes?"

"Was it a Batman thing, or a civilian thing?"

Dick snatched Tim's phone from the table and aimed it at Bruce so Jason could see. Bruce leaned against the doorway and shook his head, trying not to smile.

"What makes you think it was anything more than just an accident?" he asked, not bothering to conceal his amusement at their obsession. Dick had been asking about it since he was a teenager, as had Jason.

"When was the last time you 'accidentally' shattered a bone that required pins and screws to put it back together, Bruce?" Tim asked, glancing behind him at Dick and Jason before turning around again. "I don't buy it. What were you _really_ doing?"

Bruce looked at each of them, seeing the tiny spark of hope in their eyes that he would finally tell them what happened. He couldn't wait to toy with it.

"You make it sound like I was on some secret mission that I can't talk about."

"So, you _were_ on a secret mission, then," Jason said, leaning forward on his couch.

Bruce shrugged and turned to head upstairs for a hot shower before patrol. Dick and Tim looked at each other, eyes wide, before focusing on Bruce again.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that," he said, over his shoulder. "It was in the contract I signed."

He left the kitchen and paused at the bottom of the steps, waiting for the commotion to begin. He wasn't disappointed.

"I knew it!" Dick whisper-yelled. "I _told_ you it was something shady!"

"Yeah, yeah, Golden Boy. I had that theory way before you did."

Bruce chuckled softly as he climbed the stairs, brushing his fingers over the hotly-debated bump on his elbow. He would never get tired of the conspiracy theories and speculation over exactly how he got hurt, especially when the true story was fairly mundane. The funniest part was Tim had nearly answered his own question without even realizing it.

The last time Bruce had accidentally done anything, he was eight years old.

And he'd fallen down into an old well full of bats.

* * *

Medical terminology you might not know:

Olecranon - The bony point of your elbow that sticks out the furthest when you bend your arm. Or, for some folks, the bone underneath the part of your elbow you call your weenus. :)

ORIF – the acronym for "open reduction and internal fixation"; it's a type of surgical procedure used to fix broken bones that require screws, pins or plates to hold the broken pieces in place while they heal.


	3. Chapter 2 - Dick

I've had this written for a while, but I haven't had the desire to edit/post anything because life has been pretty cruel lately (I very suddenly lost my 13-year-old dog about a month ago to a ruptured malignant tumor on his spleen that I didn't even know he had). I haven't been coping as well as I'd like. That, and finals are approaching.

Anyway. Thanks for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy the update!

* * *

_Damian brought to my attention that Dick is again experiencing pain in his right shoulder, the same shoulder he injured as a child and reinjured when he moved to Bludhaven some years ago. Based on Damian's observations, it appears Dick is dealing with rotator cuff dysfunction, with tendonitis or an impingement being the most likely culprits. He tapes his shoulder each night before patrol to stabilize it. As I have yet to personally witness any symptoms, more information is needed. I will talk to him next time he needs medical treatment._

**_Update_ **_: Dick checked in with me tonight for medical attention after "slipping in the shower", though I obviously suspect a confrontation while on patrol in Bludhaven. He was in need of x-rays of his back, as he believed there to be cracks in the 5th and 6th ribs. During the exam, I asked about his shoulder pain as he was still using tape to stabilize the joint. He said it was indeed a preventive measure, since he has struggled with shoulder pain since he was in his late teens/early twenties. He consented to a diagnostic ultrasound and I found evidence of mild tendonitis in the left shoulder, but moderate to severe bursitis on the right side. He also suffers from an impingement as a result. Range of motion is most painful at shoulder height, but he is able to lift his arms over his head, though with a great deal of discomfort._

_I ordered two weeks of rest from patrol, and cryotherapy, with physiotherapy twice a week for at least eight weeks. I also suggested a cortisone injection to assist with inflammation._

* * *

The sky over Bludhaven was hazy with smog and humidity. The temperature still hovered near eighty degrees, which was ridiculously hot for that late at night. Dick was grateful for the warm weather, however; stiff joints and old injuries tended not to flare up as much in the heat of summer in addition to how warm his suit kept him due to the body armor. Lately, he'd take all the help he could get.

He wondered how long the kinesio tape he used on his shoulders would stick to his skin once he started sweating. He'd been using it for weeks, but tonight was the first really warm night of the year. Despite the stuff being designed to be worn during workouts and showers, he had his doubts. But as long as it continued to help with the pain in his shoulders, he didn't really care.

He grinned as he sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop. The night was young and for once, he didn't have anywhere to be immediately. With an excited shout, he gracefully leaped from the building into a swan dive, letting himself free fall for a few seconds before reaching toward his belt. In one smooth motion, he drew his grapple gun and twisted, aiming at the next building over.

The joyous moment was short-lived, though, as he held his breath and braced himself for the inevitable painful jerk that happened each time the line retracted. Over the last few months, he'd been using his left arm almost exclusively to grapple because of the pain in his right shoulder. At its worst, his right shoulder would nearly dislocate when the grapple line retracted because of the extensive wear and tear on that side. In an effort to give it a break, he switched arms. His left shoulder was in slightly better condition, though it was still painful most nights. But it was getting worse from overuse.

It took a second or two for his brain to pick up on the fact he was being pulled back up into the sky without any pain or discomfort. He momentarily panicked and prayed to whoever was listening there wasn't something wrong with his grapple or the line itself as he disconnected it from the rooftop. But in the three or four seconds it took for him to soar over the building his line had just been attached to, he realized his grapple was fine. He tucked and rolled, coming to a stop on the roof of the hospital, and he moved closer to the light by the rooftop entrance. His grapple gun still clenched tightly in his hand, he held it up and looked it over.

Everything looked fine. It had the same scuff marks on the handle from when Jason tossed it off a roof last year during a fight. The small Nightwing logo on the reel was still shiny and new, replaced just a month ago. The only things that looked different, from what he could tell in the crappy lighting, were the screws securing the casing. Those were brand new. Instead of being black to match the casing, which he checked just last night after patrol, they were lighter in color.

He frowned. Both Tim's and Jason's grapples were red and black, so he could rule both of them out. Besides- it didn't suit Jason to break into his place just to mess with his equipment and _not_ somehow let him know he'd gotten in. And Tim was way too busy with several WE acquisitions and budget meetings to have time to upgrade anything of Dick's.

He knew Damian was watching him like a hawk again lately after his shoulder problem flared up during a recent op in Gotham. Damian must have reported whatever he'd seen back to Alfred, as Alfred seemed to already know why he was there that night. He smiled at the memory, not at all bothered by it. It was one of the ways Damian showed he cared.

Dick pointed and fired at the high-rise across the street. He was only a few blocks from where he intended to set up for the first hour or so. As he fell and the wind rushed through his hair, he grinned. It reminded him of how he felt when he first went out with Batman as Robin all those years ago. He was having fun, almost as if he got part of his childhood back somehow.

He sighed and stared off into the distance, still wondering who would have tampered with it. It wasn't like they had sabotaged it. If anything, he needed to thank them because for the first time since before he got hurt years ago, he wasn't afraid to use it.

He'd have to drop in on Damian and thank him for the upgrade.

* * *

Just before the shadows began to disappear, Dick headed home. It hadn't been a particularly eventful night, but it was busy enough. He let himself into his apartment and locked the window behind him, sighing as he sat down on the bench conveniently placed there.

His gloves and domino came off first, followed by the body armor. His belt was next, and he took an inventory of what he'd used and what he hadn't. Lastly, he reached up behind him to grab his escrima sticks from their place between his shoulder blades, smiling as he spun one of them in his palm. Tonight was the first time in a while he hadn't had to use them. Of course, that was due, in part, to how much time he'd spent climbing, grappling and hanging from the eaves of buildings. He groaned at how sore his shoulders were going to be when he woke up later.

After he put his gear away and securing it, he reached up behind him again to release the catch for his suit and that's when he realized something was off. He hadn't noticed it when he'd removed his escrima sticks, because he didn't have to reach as far behind him. But usually, after a night like tonight, he would have trouble even washing his hair, let alone getting out of his suit. And he'd just released the catch and unfastened it without even thinking about it.

He went into the bathroom and flipped on the light, pulling the suit down off his arms and bunching it around his waist. With a quick twist, he turned it inside out and frowned. Normally, the internal Kevlar lining of the suit was as thin as possible and didn't provide much structural support, allowing for ease of movement and breathability. But he noticed something that hadn't been there last night.

Someone had sewn a neoprene-like material into the lining around both shoulders, adding some much-needed stability and reinforcement. It was likely the reason he wasn't in as much pain as thought he would be. He bent down and took a closer look. The stitching was neat and efficient, but it was hard to tell if it was done by machine or hand. And the quality of the fabric was high; with as much support as there was, he hadn't even noticed it was there when he put the suit on almost six hours ago.

He shook his head and finished getting undressed. The only ones in their family who could sew were Babs, Bruce and Alfred. It obviously wasn't Alfred, as he was out of the country, and his suit had been normal after he'd left. Babs was too busy working with the Birds of Prey, so it couldn't be her handiwork, either.

That left Bruce.

But how would he know? Bruce knew his medical history, of course, but he thought he'd been better about keeping the severity of his shoulder issues to himself. Then again, Bruce wasn't a normal parent and noticed things most people didn't. If Bruce altered his suit, then he was also responsible for the upgrade to Dick's grapple gun.

As the hot water eased his tight muscles and rinsed away the night's dirt and grime, he laughed quietly. He'd have to stop by the Manor later before his weekly visit to Gotham for patrol and thank Bruce, not Damian.

But first, breakfast and a nap.

* * *

Dick arrived at the Manor late the next afternoon to find it quiet and empty. Damian was working on a group project at school and wouldn't be home until around six for dinner. Tim's Ducati was out front, but he was likely down in the cave working on something. Bruce wouldn't be home until later, either, so Dick was left to his own devices.

He turned to drop his keys on the small table next to the coat closet when he noticed an envelope. It was still sealed, but he recognized the letterhead. It was from a place in the Bowery that sold gymnastics equipment.

"Weird," he muttered.

He took his shoes off and headed toward the drawing room Bruce turned into a gym. Something smelled different. The closer he got to the gym, the stronger the smells were. They weren't what he was used to, that was for sure. Instead of the usual metallic smell of free weights, he smelled leather. And wood- cedar, or maybe it was maple, he couldn't be sure. But there was one smell he'd recognize anywhere.

Chalk.

The door to the gym was open, letting the afternoon sunlight spill into the hallway. Dick stood there in shock, trying to wrap his head around the sight before him.

Their high-tech fitness equipment was usually spread throughout the room, but now it was all neatly arranged at one end. In its place was a high bar, pommel horse, and a set of rings placed around the outside of the room, with a slightly smaller version of a spring floor in the center.

"What the hell?" His voice echoed through the large room as made his way in, in complete disbelief. He hadn't used any gymnastics equipment in more than five years because of his worsening shoulder problems, and Bruce got rid of the few pieces he had when they remodeled three years ago. But while Dick tried not to think about it much in the years since, he always missed the rush of the high bar and challenging Bruce to contests on the pommel horse.

He wandered over to the raised floor and slipped his socks off before stepping up onto it. It felt just as he remembered and he grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He gingerly raised both arms above his head and waited for the pain, but instead of the sharp, excruciating stab he usually felt, there was only a dull ache.

Before he could change his mind, he stepped off the floor to give himself more of a run-up. He sprinted forward, effortlessly tumbling into a roundoff back handspring with a double tuck. When he stuck the landing, he laughed out loud and leaned his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. He didn't bother to wipe away the happy tears from his eyes because he didn't care. He _missed_ this.

Anxious to try something else, he spotted a container of chalk on the floor next to the high bar. He glanced down at his clothes, thankful he chose athletic shorts and a t-shirt. There were so many questions running through his head at the moment, like whether he could still do what he was about to try, or whether he should even be attempting it after such a long time without training.

But the single most important question was a simple one.

_I wonder if this Robin can still fly_?

* * *

Tim heard Dick before he saw him, though he didn't realize it was Dick at first.

He came upstairs to make something to eat when he heard AC/DC's _You Shook Me All Night Long_ blaring from the gym. He decided dinner could wait and grabbed a granola bar from the pantry. The music was louder than anything Bruce played and since Damian didn't listen to music as 'heinous' as AC/DC, Tim knew it had to be Dick.

He popped the last of the granola bar into his mouth and entered the gym just in time to see Dick's dismount from the high bar. He'd launched himself up into the air, twisting in a way Tim wasn't sure was actually possible, and stuck the landing. He saw Tim standing there with his mouth open and grinned.

"Hey, Timmy!"

There were _so_ many questions he had, but Tim wasn't able to spit any of them out, eventually settling for the simplest one.

"What is all this?"

Dick clapped his hands together, a cloud of chalk dust falling to the floor.

"You didn't know this was here?"

Tim shook his head and looked around, noticing just how much new equipment was there.

"Bruce, I assume?"

Dick shrugged and took a long drink from his water bottle.

"Must have been. I'm just not sure _why_."

Tim sidestepped him and moved onto the raised floor.

"I didn't know you still did any gymnastics."

Dick joined him and bounced.

"Muscle memory, I guess. I haven't done that in a while."

Tim tested the floor for himself, smiling when he also bounced.

"Want to learn how to do a back handspring?" Dick asked, a hopeful smile on his face and a mischievous spark in his eye. Tim looked down at the sweatpants and hoodie he'd been wearing in the cave.

"Let me go change."

Tim went up to his room and Dick glanced at the pommel horse, the one thing he hadn't tried yet.

"Alright Grayson, let's see if you've still got it."

* * *

Bruce came home with Damian in tow after picking him up from school. Damian wasn't in a very good mood but immediately perked up when he saw Dick's car in the driveway. Bruce didn't bother hiding his amusement. Tim's bike was there, too, and he was glad Tim was home and not at the office.

"Do you think they're downstairs?"

"Probably. That's where they usually are."

But the moment they entered the house, they were greeted with obnoxiously loud music. Damian's expression went from cautious excitement to annoyance when he didn't recognize the song, and Bruce had to stifle a laugh.

"It's Kenny Loggins. The song is called _Footloose_. It's from an eighties movie."

"It's horrible," Damian mumbled. "I can't believe Grayson even _likes_ music from that long ago."

Bruce looked down at him and raised an eyebrow as he loosened his tie.

"Watch it," he said. "It wasn't _that_ long ago."

Bruce followed Damian down the hall to see where the music was coming from. The song came to an end and there was a pause before the next one, allowing them to hear Dick's excited cheer.

"There you go! You got your head around fast enough that time. Now check this out!"

They stopped in the doorway just as Dick sprinted across the floor, his roundoff back handspring generating enough momentum for a whip and a double layout. He stumbled a little on the landing, but his thousand-watt smile was proof he didn't care in the slightest. Bruce felt his heartbeat quicken at the pure joy on Dick's face. It was something he hadn't seen in a really, _really_ long time, and he would have done just about anything to bring that back. He watched a moment before laying a hand on Damian's shoulder to steer them back toward the kitchen.

"Let's go get dinner started."

Damian didn't move, instead watching Tim do a roundoff back handspring followed by a back tuck.

"I'd rather stay and watch Drake fall on his face."

Bruce sighed and held out his hand for Damian's backpack.

"_I'll_ go get dinner started, then."

Before he turned away, Bruce took one last look at Dick. He was red-faced and sweaty, his thick hair sticking up in all directions, having so much fun he was beaming. In that moment, he looked more like the child Bruce brought home all those years ago than the man he grew up to be. And at least for now, his shoulders didn't appear to bother him at all.

Bruce smiled and slung Damian's backpack up onto his shoulder.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

I have no idea where I got the "slipping in the shower" joke. It just seems like something he might say when trying to lighten the mood.

Medical terminology you might not know:

**Bursitis** \- condition that affects the small, fluid-filled sacs (called bursae) that cushion the bones, tendons and muscles near your joints.  
**Shoulder impingement** – a common cause of shoulder pain, especially for people who use repetitive, over-the-head motions with their arms/shoulders. (Like acrobats or vigilantes!) This happens when tendons, ligaments or bursa become pinched or compressed between bones in the shoulder.  
**kinesio tape** \- Also known as kinesiology tape, you may have seen Olympic athletes wearing it (like volleyball players or runners), as it's brightly-colored and stretchy. It's a therapeutic kind of tape that medical professionals haven't been able to prove actually helps relieve joint/muscle pain, but physical therapists and chiropractors alike do use it in conjunction with their treatments because a lot of patients feel it helps.


	4. Chapter 3 - Jason

_There is evidence Jason still has only one working kidney, despite his exposure to the Lazarus Pit. During treatment for a gunshot wound to his right shoulder, I observed a heavier Kevlar insert in his jacket. It is noticeably larger than the one on the left side. And in studying his eating habits, he still maintains the strict low-sodium diet he began when the right kidney was removed at age thirteen, after the incident with Two-Face. Whether this is merely due to habit or a continued medical necessity, I am not sure._

_I also suspect Jason injured one of his hips recently. When he arrived tonight to have dinner with me, there was a marked decrease in mobility on the right side. He remained standing as long as possible and only sat after I left the room. Will update when more information is available._

**_Update_**_: Upon further examination after a recent soft-tissue injury to his left hip, I ordered an MRI of the right side. (Jason was aware and consented to the procedure.) There is evidence of a torn acetabular labrum and while it is healing, it will need to be monitored in case arthroscopic repair is required. When I asked what happened, he refused to answer, saying only that he "slipped in the shower". Physiotherapy exercises were given for strengthening and rehabilitation._

_The stage of healing indicates it happened approximately four weeks ago, near the time Tim was exposed to Scarecrow's new fear toxin. Damian saw Tim stumble and fall from the four-story building on which they'd taken refuge, but when he rushed to help, Tim was safely on the ground with Jason tending to him. Damian assumed Tim was conscious and caught himself, but I suspect Jason caught him as Tim has no recollection of the fall. Their grapple lines aren't designed to slow such a shortened descent, especially when there is added weight to the line. Jason likely tried and was unable to effectively utilize his grapple, with his legs and hips taking the brunt of the fall. I haven't seen him since to confirm if this is what happened; he's been avoiding us again. It is late-April, after all._

**_Note: _**_Jason requested we refrain from giving him pain medication unless he asks for it. When I asked if he specifically meant NSAID's (to try and confirm his having one kidney), he said it applied to all pain medication. I suspect it has more to do with possible hallucinations and a fear of being vulnerable than protecting his remaining kidney. He prefers to be in pain and aware of his surroundings than to be comfortable and lack control of the situation._

* * *

"Nice work today. Another two or three weeks, that hip will be almost as good as new."

"Thanks. I really appreciate your help."

Jason climbed off the treatment table and held out his hand. Jamie, his physical therapist, grinned and shook it. He turned to leave when she stopped him, gently grabbing his bicep.

"I know we've talked about it before, but I want to reiterate that taking some ibuprofen or naproxen could really help, even in the short-term. You've built up a lot of strength and mobility since you started therapy, but in addition to ice, over-the-counter pain medication can help with inflammation."

"I don't notice much pain or soreness anymore, but I'll remember that."

"Sure, you will," she replied, shaking her head with a smile as she typed a few notes into his chart. "I've heard that before."

"So have I," he grinned. "See you next week."

Jason left the clinic and headed back to his apartment in Old Gotham, one he kept so his family would stop trying to find his others. This one resembled a permanent home more than he cared to admit, but he had another two or three places throughout the city squared away in case he needed them. But they were smaller and not as well-furnished; almost his entire book collection was here, in addition to a better kitchen, the more thorough first aid kit, and of course, his insanely comfortable bed.

He let himself in, kicking the door shut behind him with a tired sigh. Mid-morning sun spilled across his living room, filling it with a cheerful glow, and he collapsed on the couch. It was a gorgeous late-summer morning despite the increasing humidity, and he considered taking advantage of it. A local theatre company was holding a production in a park not far from his place later that afternoon, and it would be a great reason to get outside for a while. He could use the sun and fresh air.

As he settled against the couch cushions and let the sun sink into his bones, he felt his eyelids growing heavy. But before he could fall asleep, his stomach growled, and he remembered he hadn't eaten since the end of his patrol much earlier that morning. He hauled himself to his feet and wandered into the kitchen. There was some leftover chicken piccata in the fridge; he used Alfred's recipe and it turned out better than he thought it would.

After that, he planned to read a little while before taking a **long** nap.

* * *

As usual, when he woke up and got out of bed, his first few steps were stiff and awkward. He fell asleep on his right side, the side that bothered him the most, and he slept so hard he hadn't moved at all. With a wince, he leaned against his dresser and gently worked his leg back and forth, then side to side, to get everything moving. After he first injured it several years ago, it would have taken the better part of an hour to be able to walk normally after getting out of bed. Now, after extensive physical therapy, it took only a few minutes.

Still, it sucked it took any time at all, considering he was only in his early twenties. He had the distinct feeling Alfred moved faster than he did in the mornings. It was worth it, though, catching Tim before he hit pavement at full speed from a rooftop, nearly unconscious after a heavy dose of fear toxin.

Besides- he had the muscle mass to help absorb the impact; Tim likely would be been seriously injured, if not killed, by that fall. All in all, he was more than happy to deal with the pain of recovery than to lose someone else. He preferred having a bum hip to a dead brother.

Once he could walk without any stiffness, he made his way to the kitchen. The clock on the microwave read six-thirty; he'd slept eight hours and could have slept longer. He checked the alarm on his phone and swore under his breath. It was set for three a.m., not p.m.

_Todd, you're an idiot_.

He frowned. The voice in his head sounded _way_ too much like Damian for his liking, and he vowed to spend less time with the kid. The last thing he wanted was any of them being the voice in his head. But since it was Tuesday, he had to get ready for softball. Their first game started at 7:30, so he only had an hour to eat again and get to the field.

Turning back toward his bedroom, he went to change clothes. He wanted to get to the field early to warm up; the team they played tonight was the second-best in their league, and his own team, sitting atop the rankings in first place, had their reputation to defend. They won it all last summer and were on pace to do it again. And after physical therapy that morning, he had full clearance to push himself as hard as he wanted, both in the outfield and running the bases.

That poor excuse of a team from Bludhaven was going _down_.

* * *

Three and a half hours later Jason stumbled back into his apartment, dropping his bag next to the door, his bat hitting the floor with a metallic clunk. He was sweaty, covered in dirt and grass stains, and his hip was sore, but he honestly hadn't felt that good in a long time. He batted 3-4 with five RBI, a stolen base, and a spectacular diving catch out in left field. And they beat the Bludhaven Brawlers 12-5, clinching the top spot in the playoffs for the second year in a row.

The rest of his team was still out celebrating at the bar near the field, but he couldn't stay out too late. He left after two beers and a burger, telling them he had plans with family, since he promised to meet Tim and Stephanie on patrol later. During the game Tim sent him an e-mail, but before he even considered opening the encrypted message, first he was going to take a long, hot shower.

After showering and throwing his disgusting clothes in the wash, Jason settled on the couch with his laptop and a large ice pack over his hip. Sure enough, the e-mail from Tim included new coordinates for their meetup in the Bowery that night after Stephanie had come across some new intel from Leslie after she'd treated the guy at her clinic. Before logging off the cave server, though, he saw a notification in the corner of the screen. The hacking lessons from Tim had apparently paid off; he'd gotten into his file seemingly without anyone noticing and set up an alert for any change in the file's contents.

Shifting so he was sitting more upright, he opened his file and scrolled down to the bottom, where the newest information was displayed. Below Alfred's previous entry concerning his request he not be given pain meds unless he asked was a short paragraph- only five sentences- and his eyes widened as he read.

_Based on blood-type, tissue-typing and cross-matching, there are two potential kidney donors in the family. Among the immediate family, Dick is the only compatible donor and further testing of his own kidney function is necessary. He is not aware of this and wouldn't be informed unless the need arises. The other match is Stephanie and she has gone on record stating she would be happy to donate. She does not know who the recipient may be and did not ask._

Jason closed his file and went back to the log of who last edited the entry. The timestamp was from the main computer in the cave at four-thirty-eight that very morning. And based on the writing style, the fact Alfred was out of the country, and no one else would have access to see or edit this, it had to have been Bruce.

On one hand, he was incredibly weirded out and a little pissed off at his privacy being violated like that. Whether or not he wanted to be given pain medication or needed a kidney was no one's business. But as quickly as the anger flared, it disappeared as he remembered Dick didn't even know, and Stephanie agreed without hesitation or knowledge of who might need it.

In the grand scheme of things, the only thing Bruce had done, really, was let Jason know he had options if he ever needed or wanted them. There was no interference, no confrontation or awkward discussion, and as the one who frequently had to make important and urgent decisions about their medical care, it made sense for Bruce to be aware of stuff like this. So, weirded out as he was, he realized it was Bruce's way of reaching out and showing he cared. And considering Jason longed for confirmation of that for years now, that he belonged and was part of their family, this was as close to Bruce actually telling him he did as he'd ever get.

The ice pack was almost room temperature now, and it was time to get ready for patrol, anyway, so he logged out, closing his laptop and putting it on the coffee table. He tossed the ice pack into the sink as he passed through the kitchen, debating whether to wear the full body armor beneath his jacket tonight, or to wear the lighter but less-armored vest to try and stay cool. It was still ridiculously hot and humid, even though it was nearly eleven p.m. Despite their plans tonight consisting mostly of recon and surveillance work, he wasn't sure he wanted to risk not having enough body armor when facing a potential arms deal.

He stood in front of his "work closet", the one with the biometric locks, staring at his gear, his jacket in one hand and full body armor in the other. His vest was on the bed behind him, next to the helmet, and the longer he stood there holding his jacket, the more he felt like something was off. He ditched the vest on the bed and put the jacket on, frowning at how light it felt. He ran his hands across his lower back, feeling both Kevlar inserts right where they should be.

_Well, **this** is weird_.

Both armor plates were there, and the right side was still larger than the left side, as it should be. So, if everything was still there, why did it feel so different?

Jason shrugged out of the jacket and turned it inside out, opening the inside pockets that held the armor. He expected to see the same charcoal grey Kevlar plates he added to the jacket over a year ago, but instead he found two black plates of the same size, but they weighed considerably less. Not only was the color different, but the shiny Wayne Enterprises logo stood out prominently.

"How the hell?" he muttered, dropping the plates on the bed and immediately picking up the vest, opening the pockets. Like his jacket, the plates had been replaced with the same material. He had a feeling if he checked any other pieces of his gear, the armor plating was switched out in those, too.

He sat on the corner of the bed, stunned and a little irritated. How and when had Bruce been here to swap everything out? He'd been home all day, save for his physical therapy appointment that morning and softball. Despite not telling anyone about either, he had a feeling Bruce knew, because _of course_ he did. And Jason knew Bruce wouldn't chance coming in while Jason was home.

It dawned on him a moment later Bruce mentioned having an appointment with Leslie this morning while they were on patrol last night. Four nights earlier, a carjacker tried to run over Batman while attempting to flee the scene, and Bruce had a few contusions Leslie wanted to check over. Considering how close Jason lived to Leslie's clinic, he realized how easily Bruce could have stopped in before his appointment while Jason was at physical therapy.

Once upon a time he would have been _royally _pissed at the intrusion, but now he was more irritated at the fact Bruce got past his security than he was at Bruce being there in the first place. Sure, he was the World's Greatest Detective, but getting past a lock that required a retinal scan, voice print verification and a 20-digit passcode was just showing off.

Jason had plans to tend to Alfred's garden tomorrow but decided he would show up a little earlier than he initially planned. If Bruce was going to be that subtle and creepy about showing his affection, Jason realized he could return the favor.

Two can play at that game.

* * *

Bruce came home after an afternoon of meetings with the budget committees craving a strong cup of coffee, something to eat, and a few hours of uninterrupted quiet. He felt a massive tension headache coming on and knew if he didn't get out in front of it, patrol tonight would be tough.

As expected, the house was quiet as he made his way through the entrance hall toward the kitchen. Something felt off, however. He could smell food. More specifically, something sweet- like the scent you'd notice in a bakery. It didn't make sense, however. Damian was likely outside somewhere with Titus and Tim was having dinner with friends. Neither of them did a lot of cooking, though when Damian did, it certainly wasn't anything sweet. Dick didn't bake. Stephanie wasn't here.

That left Jason.

Bruce walked into the kitchen to see his favorite vanilla bean scones cooling on a rack on the counter by the oven, a small stack of plates next to them. There was also a fresh pot of coffee brewing and his favorite mug was waiting for him. And the Red Hood's jacket draped over a chair at the island.

He smiled, draping his suit jacket over the chair next to Jason's, putting his briefcase down on the floor. Apparently Jason noticed the armor upgrades. Bruce unbuttoned and rolled up his shirt sleeves, moving to pour himself a cup of coffee. He closed his eyes and took the first sip, sighing in contentment. Jason made some of the best coffee he'd ever tasted, and he couldn't wait to enjoy a scone or two with it.

But before he could help himself to one, he heard a noise outside the kitchen window. Bruce turned to the large window above the sink that overlooked Alfred's garden in the backyard. He spotted Jason kneeling in a row of carrots, pulling weeds. Unlike Alfred, Jason didn't wear gardening gloves and his hands were covered in dirt. He was wearing one of Bruce's old Gotham Knights t-shirts and a pair of his shorts, both of which fit Jason better than Bruce cared to admit. Bruce often forgot Jason was nearly as built as he was, though he wasn't quite as tall as Bruce.

Bruce grinned into his coffee as Jason swiped at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of dirt behind. His baseball cap was turned backwards to keep his thick, unruly hair out of his eyes, and he looked how Bruce used to picture when they weren't getting along, and he wouldn't see Jason for months. He looked relaxed, happy and content.

As he turned to grab a scone while they were still warm, he saw Damian appear from around the side of the house with two bottles of water. Damian asked Jason something, what it was, Bruce couldn't tell since he couldn't see Damian's lips to read them. Jason pointed at something and Damian went to pick up the garden hose. He handed it to Jason, and Jason gave him the hoe, gesturing toward a row of squash plants that needed tending to. Damian's expression turned serious as he watched Jason demonstrate how to cut the weeds out with the hoe, and Bruce put his coffee cup down, forgetting about the scones altogether.

There was a considerable pile of weeds at the head of the garden and it was clear Jason had been out there most of the afternoon. His cheeks and hose were a little pink, as were his arms, and Bruce was about to go look for some sunscreen when he noticed Jason grin devilishly and aim the hose at Damian. He turned the nozzle all the way open, completely soaking Damian, who turned around with an absolute murderous scowl on his face. Jason sprayed him again before Damian's scowl turned to laughter, and he darted toward a pail of water Jason had sitting at the end of the row of squash, presumably for them to wash their hands. He picked it up and took off after Jason, who easily dashed out of the garden and out of range of the pail. Based on the way Jason was moving and changing direction, his hip wasn't too bothersome.

Bruce was tempted to join them, but he knew Alfred would have a conniption if he found out Bruce joined a water fight in the Saville Row suit he was wearing. Plus, with Damian home for the summer, he needed time alone with his brothers, time to be a kid. And from the looks of it, Jason was benefitting from it, too. He took a sip of coffee and picked up a scone.

Jason walked past the window with Damian over his shoulder, both of them absolutely drenched and laughing. Damian was trying to wriggle from Jason's grasp, but there was no way he was going anywhere until Jason allowed it. He stopped when he noticed Bruce standing there.

Jason looked at the scone in Bruce's hand, then made a show of looking over his shoulder at the leather jacket hanging on the chair. When he glanced up at Bruce, there was a softness in his eyes Bruce hadn't seen in quite some time, and he nodded, his cheeks somehow turning a brighter shade of pink.

_Thank you_.

Bruce held up the still-warm scone and nodded in return.

_You're welcome_.

Jason shifted Damian, holding his legs more securely, and took off in the direction of the pool. He could hear Damian yelling as they went.

"So help me, Todd, if you throw me into the pool, you _will_ die a second time. Do you hear me?"

Bruce nearly choked on his scone.

It seemed Jason had been around so much this summer, Damian had taken after him and started making the morbid jokes that made Bruce cringe. He shook his head and took a second scone, making his way upstairs to change. If that was the result of them spending time together, he would have to find a way to deal with it.

He planned to work in his office a bit before dinner, but he wanted to change clothes first, and he put the scone and coffee mug on his desk. Upon opening his closet, he was greeted with an airhorn and a burst of confetti and he nearly fell to the floor, his hand on his chest. He sat on the end of the bed for a moment, willing his breathing to return to normal, and felt a smile tug at his lips. There was a note taped to the airhorn canister.

_"Payback's fun, right? Next time, just knock. You can stay for coffee or something."_

He read the note again before carefully folding it and turning toward his nightstand. His eyes were definitely not misty, and he certainly wasn't feeling like he finally had his son back. He opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand and removed the lid of the box he kept there. He read Jason's note one more time before adding it to the collection of notes from his kids.

Coffee.

He'd like that.


	5. Chapter 4 - Tim

There's a mention of depression in this chapter, but it's nothing graphic or overly serious. He struggles from time to time, like a lot of us do.

* * *

_I am concerned about Tim. His headaches have become more frequent and more severe. Leslie and I have not been able to determine an exact cause nor any effective treatment. We have tried several things, most notably physiotherapy and craniosacral therapy, but they have been only partially successful. He carries a lot of tension in his neck and shoulders, which is one reason for the headaches, but not the only contributor. He initially agreed to regular appointments for massage therapy, since it provided some relief, but I doubt he continued going to the appointments as I haven't received a bill in weeks._

_And per our conversation after Master Bruce passed away, he hasn't made any time to look after himself, which also concerns me immensely. He isn't taking time to rest as much as I'd like him to, he rarely gets outside, and despite conversations with Dick, Cassandra and myself, he continues to patrol on his own._

_He had his vision checked six months ago and now requires glasses/contact lenses, but I don't believe it to be a major cause for the migraines. Working such long hours in front of a computer places a great deal of strain on his eyes, of course, and he has taken to working in the dark most of the time. That seems to keep them at bay the longest, hence the reason I haven't tried to talk him out of it._

_**Note:**__ I've noticed Tim and Dick have a sort of language they use when others are around when they don't want anyone listening in. Dick will tap Tim two or three times and Tim will reply with a nod or shake of his head. On occasion, he'll hold up several fingers as well. Dick responds with a hug regardless of how Tim answers. Sometimes they'll retreat to Tim's room upstairs and others they carry on._

_This occurs most frequently when certain anniversaries are approaching, such as the death of his father Jack, and the former-deaths of Stephanie and Damian, or after Tim has encountered Scarecrow's fear toxin. I suspect it to be Dick's way of checking on Tim's mental health as he has battled depression on multiple occasions._

* * *

Just before six-thirty a.m., Tim rolled over and stretched, groaning and immediately curling into a ball.

_No.. not today. I can't deal with this again today._

The headaches always began in the same place, the base of his skull, and were usually followed by a painful throbbing sensation that made him dizzy and nauseous. So far, the throbbing hadn't gotten too bad. If he could get to his medication, he might be able to catch it before it gets worse, and he could still make the board meeting at nine.

But then his alarm went off and blew every opportunity for a productive day out of the water.

Before he could drag himself close enough to silence his phone, a firm, but gentle hand squeezed his shoulder.

"It's alright, Tim. I've got it."

The room went quiet again and Tim crawled back under the too-warm blankets, trying to block out any and all of the sunlight shining in his windows. He felt the bed dip next to him as Bruce sat down, pushing the duvet down far enough to see Tim's face. He knew Bruce was checking him over, likely frowning because as far as Bruce knew, Tim rarely got migraines anymore.

"Where's your medication?" Bruce kept his voice soft, barely above a whisper, for which Tim was grateful. With his eyes still tightly closed, Tim gestured to the nightstand.

"Second drawer."

Bruce shifted slowly and opened the drawer without a sound.

"What do you need to take with it?"

"Just water."

"Can you hold tight while I run down the hall?"

Though it hurt to move, let alone laugh, Tim was unable to stop the one that bubbled from his chest as he pictured Bruce rushing down the hall in his pajamas. He immediately regretted it, though, and slapped a hand over his mouth when his stomach rolled.

"I'll be fine," he whispered. In all actuality, when they came on like this, Tim was never certain he'd be fine. It felt like his head was going to split in two, and there wasn't much he could do about it other than hide somewhere dark, cool and quiet. Whether that was an hour or two, or all day, he couldn't predict.

Bruce returned a few minutes later with a glass of water and helped him sit up. Once he was upright and perched safely on the edge of the bed next to Bruce, he cracked his eyes open and looked around. The room was considerably darker, and he could hear the whoosh of cold air in the vents as the air conditioning kicked in. When had Bruce drawn the curtains? And had he adjusted the thermostat, too?

_Huh. Maybe this one was worse than I thought._

Bruce held out the glass, eyeing Tim closely while he waited.

"I added a low dose of a sedative to this to help you rest. Drink as much as you're able, at least until you feel up to eating later."

Tim took several gulps from the glass before he tried to relax against Bruce's shoulder, leaning limply against his side as he waited for the nausea to subside. But everything from the crown of his head to his shoulders hurt like hell, and relaxation was likely a long way off.

He must have blurted something out because the next he knew, Bruce was talking again.

"I know it hurts, Tim. But it won't be long until the medication starts to work and the sedative kicks in."

Bruce's deep voice was soothing next to his ear, which was now resting comfortably on Bruce's chest.

_Wait. We're lying down? When had that happened?_

He couldn't stay in bed- he had things to do. There was a meeting. He had to get up and get ready. With a groan, he attempted to sit up, flattening his palm against Bruce's chest and pushing weakly.

"Meeting this morning," he mumbled. "Have to get up."

Bruce's large hand wrapped around Tim's wrist while his other arm was still wrapped around Tim's shoulders. Any will to struggle faded when the pounding got worse.

"I had my secretary reschedule that. The board can wait a day or two."

Tim let himself be tucked back against Bruce's chest, relieved he didn't have to go anywhere. That meant no traffic noise, no bright sunlight jabbing into the deep recesses of his skull with an ice pick. That realization alone made him feel a little better. As they laid there, Tim felt himself relaxing into Bruce's side, his heartbeat a soothing rhythm in Tim's ear.

Just before he fell asleep, Tim felt fingers lightly brushing his hair back from his forehead.

"Wake me at noon," he mumbled. "Can still get a few hours in."

"Just rest, Tim. You'll wake up when you're ready."

How long had Tim been struggling like this and he hadn't known? He mentally derided himself for missing something like this and he knew he had to do something. Tim was a brilliant young man, something he'd had long before he met Bruce all those years ago. But Tim had most definitely inherited Bruce's workaholic tendencies, something he intended to rectify as soon as Tim fell asleep. Bruce smiled sadly and closed his eyes, leaning his cheek against the top of Tim's head.

_I need to fix this_.

* * *

When Tim woke up later, he'd nearly forgotten about the migraine. He rolled onto his stomach and smiled into his pillow, feeling rested for the first time in ages- much better than he usually felt in the morning. Once he was more awake, however, he realized something felt off.

He sat up and reached for his phone, sighing in relief. It was only three-thirty.

_Good. I still have a few more hours_.

It took his brain a second to notice the tiny "pm" next to the time, though, and when he did, he nearly dropped his phone.

It was three-thirty.

In the _afternoon_.

He tossed the phone onto the bed behind him and reached for his glasses on the nightstand, intending on working remotely for a few hours. There was a folded piece of paper tucked under his glasses. He recognized the stationery as the set Bruce's secretary gave him for Christmas last year. Bruce's flowing cursive filled nearly three-quarters of the page.

_Tim,_

_There's chicken soup in the fridge- Alfred's recipe. Try to eat some if you feel well enough to get out of bed. I went to the office to take care of a few things. Be back around six-thirty. Damian is at the Kent's place tonight and tomorrow, so you're on your own for a few hours unless Dick or Jason stop by._

_Don't worry about the board meeting this morning. When you're rested, check your e-mail for the new date/time and the agenda._

_-Bruce_

Tim sighed and folded the note again, putting it back on the nightstand. He thought back on what happened that morning, remembering the migraine and Bruce getting him his medication. How was he able to sleep that long? His migraine meds did make him a little groggy, sure, but not like this. He rubbed a hand over his face and closed his eyes, thinking hard about what all happened that morning. Then he remembered Bruce mentioning the small dose of a sedative and it all clicked.

As much as he hated to admit it, it was a genius move on Bruce's part. Sleep was usually the only thing that helped get rid of his migraines, but he could never actually get to sleep because of the pain. That, and the fact he was an occasional insomniac on account of all the projects he was working on. He snorted and shook his head softly.

Well, it was more than occasional, but that was beside the point.

Crawling out of bed, he found the hoodie and sweats he was wearing last night. Chicken soup sounded really good about now, not to mention he had the cave to himself for a few hours. He could get caught up on the case he'd been working with Jason and Steph.

Despite how the day began, it was shaping up much better than he could have anticipated.

* * *

Tim unlocked the door to his apartment and didn't bother turning on any of the lights as he trudged inside. The moon was bright enough to light his way, and it was easier on his eyes than the harsh bulbs in the entryway. Though the migraine was gone, and he'd felt pretty good since that afternoon, he still had a nagging ache behind his eyes and at the back of his neck.

Patrol went well, and the leads Steph gathered two nights ago helped shorten their evening by at least three hours. So, after the GCPD arrived on scene, he and Steph stopped over at Jason's for a late dinner. She insisted on ordering a victory pizza, but Jason had the ingredients to make their own, so they spent two hours ridiculing each other's choices for toppings as they assembled everything. In the end, Tim and Jason shared their creations, leaving Stephanie on her own after a rant by Jason about her horrible taste in toppings.

Tim couldn't _believe_ how much Jason hated pineapple on pizza.

He put his leftovers in the fridge and wandered toward his office. There were only a few more notes he wanted to make in the casefile, but that wouldn't take him long. But with the way he felt, he knew he shouldn't use his laptop anymore. Between his contacts and the smaller screen, he didn't want to risk another headache. First, though, his contacts had to come out.

He only wore contacts while on patrol or anywhere else glasses would be inconvenient. Not only were they more comfortable and filtered out blue light, the frames made him look a little older, and that was always helpful at the office.

After making a pit stop to take out his contacts, he headed to his office just down the hall. Tim yawned and flipped the light on, stopping in the doorway when he noticed the new chair, monitors and keyboard atop his desk. He recognized the chair straight away. It was the same model as the high-backed ergonomic chair Bruce had in the Batcave, only a year or two newer. His three monitors had been replaced with state-of-the-art 4k, low blue light-emitting, flicker-free displays- the kind with a new ambient light technology that adjusted based on the light in the room. And the keyboard was also new.

He shook his head as he took a seat in the chair, leaning back into the plush upholstery. He grinned as he adjusted the height of the chair. Not only would all of this new equipment likely help with his eye strain and headaches, it would also kick his gaming habit up a few notches.

As he turned everything on and settled in, he noticed another note, this time under the mouse.

_If any of this doesn't meet your specs, let me know. I thought it might help. -B_

"As usual, Bruce, you're right," Tim said softly, his fingers cruising over the keyboard. He'd have to do something to thank him, once he figured out just how to do that. Allowing people to help him wasn't something he was very good at, at least that's what Dick was always telling him.

But first, he wanted to see just how amazing his game collection looked on the new monitors.

* * *

Tim arrived the next morning a full two hours before the board meeting. The lights were on in his office and he stopped in the doorway. Like his apartment, there was another brand-new chair, monitor, and keyboard waiting for him. He sighed and glanced down the hall toward Bruce's office, the door to which was closed. Bruce was on the phone but looked up at him, obviously nervous about Tim's reaction.

_Too much?_

Tim shook his head and smiled softly, glancing into his office before looking back at Bruce.

_Thanks, B_.

Bruce's massive shoulders relaxed, a relieved smile spreading across his face as he continued the phone call. Tim sat down at his desk and took a sip of his coffee. He was dreading opening his e-mail after missing yesterday. But before he could do anything, the phone rang and Tam's extension popped up on the display.

"Morning, Tam."

"Good morning- I'm glad you're feeling better!"

Tim cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder as he logged into his computer, signing into his e-mail first. His eyes widened when he read the revised agenda for the board meeting.

"Yeah, me too," he answered, trying to hide his shock. "What can I do for you?"

"There's a call for you, someone from that massage therapy place you used to go when you got migraines. Want me to take a message?"

Tim forced himself to ignore the e-mail for a moment as it dawned on him that Alfred must have told Bruce he'd stopped going to the appointments.

_You're slipping, Drake. You used to hide things better than that._

"I'll take the call," he said, telling himself Bruce was just trying to help. "Thanks."

"Sure thing. Here she comes."

Tam transferred the call and he listened, all the while studying the family photo he used as his desktop background, the one taken last Christmas when Cass was home. Bruce was standing in the center, staring into the camera with a wide, genuine smile on his face as Alfred tried to wrangle everyone into standing still.

_Well played, Bruce. Well played._

Bruce happened to walk by as Tim listened, stopping and leaning on the door frame, hands shoved casually in his pockets. Tim re-read the meeting agenda, focusing on the proposal that they hire another person to work with Tim and Lucius, before leaning back in his chair and looking at Bruce. The woman on the line was still talking.

"So, based on the call from your physician, doctor Leslie Thompkins, she'd like you to come once a week for three to four weeks, then every other week after that. You can set up the appointments for when they fit into your schedule. How does that sound?"

"Well, since I'll have more flexibility in my work schedule now, that shouldn't be a problem," Tim answered, looking pointedly at Bruce, who gave nothing away if he knew what Tim was referring to. "I'll call back this afternoon and make the first appointment."

"That's wonderful news, mister Drake. We look forward to working with you and getting you back to feeling better."

Tim politely ended the call, still looking at Bruce as he hung up the phone.

"Between you, Leslie, and Alfred, I never stood a chance," Tim said, sipping his coffee before standing up and stepping around his desk. He leaned on the corner, crossing his arms to wait for an explanation. Bruce stood in front of him, concern clearly visible in his expression.

"You never mentioned you were still getting migraines," he said carefully, his tone totally devoid of accusation or judgement. Tim braced himself for some kind of admonishment, but it never came.

"After yesterday, I looked back in your medical file and it seemed like massage and acupuncture helped once. I figured it might be time to try it again."

Tim shrugged a shoulder, staring at the floor.

"It did, but I never had time. It sort of fell off my radar, I guess."

Bruce nodded. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and quiet.

"You do such a wonderful job looking after everyone else, Tim. I just want to make sure you have what you need to look after yourself, too." He waited until Tim looked up at him before he continued.

"I know you have people to talk to, whether it's Dick, Alfred, Jason- whoever. But if there's _ever_ anything I can do, you know I'd drop everything and help you, right?"

Tim looked up at him, feeling much too vulnerable to say what was really on his mind. Something like 'yeah I've been struggling', or 'I don't deserve all of this attention'. Instead, he said the only thing that came to mind and cracked a joke.

"Like hiring another full-time employee just to lighten my workload? Talk about nepotism, Bruce."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. We've been down one full-time employee in this department since June. The fact you might benefit from that is merely a coincidence." Bruce turned to leave, stopping in the doorway. To anyone walking by, his expression was one of shocked innocence.

Tim knew better and grinned, but said nothing.

"Anyway," Bruce continued. "I've got a board meeting to prep for. After you're caught up, I have some things I'd like to run by you before then."

"I'll be over in twenty," Tim replied. "Conference room, or your office?"

"My office is fine," Bruce said. "See you in a few."

Bruce disappeared, leaving him with his thoughts. He knew he was terrible about asking for help, or admitting he even needed it, but he was getting better about that. Right now, Dick would probably tell him to let Bruce help, or, at the very least, admit to himself he needed it. He pulled his phone from his pocket and sat down, intending on sending Bruce a text when Bruce beat him to it.

_I hope I didn't cross any boundaries. You and your wellbeing are more important than any meeting. I hope you know that._

Tim stared at the message, his thumbs hovering over the screen. He looked at the desktop photo again, focusing on Bruce. He started typing a thank you but deleted it all and started over.

_The migraines stopped for a while, but they started again a few weeks ago. This was #5._

He hit send and nervously sipped his coffee, watching as the three little dots appeared as Bruce typed.

_Thank you for telling me. You don't have to go through that, or anything else, on your own. We'll get this figured out._

Before Tim could reply, another message came through.

_If you ever need anything and don't know how to ask, send me a text. Doesn't matter if I'm sitting in the same room or across the country. I'll answer._

Tim watched as the screen got blurry and he blinked, a tear dropping onto the screen. He swiped them away with the back of his hand, feeling relieved. He wasn't surprised Bruce picked up on everything, but he wished he hadn't let things get this bad. It felt good that someone apart from Dick knew he was struggling.

_Thanks, Bruce. I know that, but sometimes I need to be reminded._

When the next message came through, Tim stifled a laugh.

_I can do that. _😉

Apparently Bruce used emojis now.

* * *

Medical terminology you might not know:

**Craniosacral therapy** – a type of soft-tissue therapy that uses gentle touch to try and release tension in the body; whether it's actually effective is still debated, though some people do find relief in it


End file.
